by Jaye Peaches
Later—how much later, I didn’t know—I stirred and found that he’d covered us with the duvet. I turned to lie next to him, snuggling up to his side. His eyes were closed, but I didn’t think for one second he was asleep.
I laced my fingers through his chest hairs and adored his new hairstyle, which had managed to survive his frantic motions intact.
“Why do you call it a punishment fuck?” I asked.
He pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling. A few seconds ticked by. I fondled his pectorals, sliding my hand around the dainty nipples until the silence stretched on and I halted my circular journey over his firm chest. Why did he struggle to answer my questions?
“I like to be in control—”
“I noticed—”
“So, when I’m not, I have to get back in control… I suppose it’s a get-back-in-control fuck.”
My fingers twirled again. “Doesn’t have the same ring about it as punishment.”
“Do you mind? The control thing?”
“Thing…?” I didn’t like the concept of punishment, but each time he said those words, my pussy went berserk. Perhaps it was the way he said it. “I confess, it turns me on. Not the notion of punishment, but you taking me regardless.”
He lifted his head off the pillow. “It does?” He sounded surprised at my admission.
“I also like the reason why you do it. Teasing you into coming.” I grinned, flicking my finger at his tiny nipple.
“Ah. So I have to earn it.”
I rested on an elbow and stared directly into his eyes. “Earn? Seems to me you like how you earned that fuck. I think for you it’s a win-win.”
“And you, too, don’t tell me those orgasms—”
I smothered his mouth, drowning out his words. Gradually, I extracted my lips. He smiled.
“What next?” I asked.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. You shower. I’ll cook. Then…”
I raised my eyebrows expectantly. “Then?”
“I’ll fuck you again. A slow, sedate version.”
He swung his legs off the bed and reached for his dressing gown. I lay back on the bed. With a wink of his eye, he left me alone. I didn’t move for some time, pondering his last words. He talked of leisurely sex, but still called it a fuck. What happened to lovemaking? Did that expression exist in his vocabulary? Then again, I’d never made much impression when it came to romance and lovey-dovey behavior. Micah had always claimed to hate it, until I bought him something, then he’d be all over me again.
Stop overthinking.
I heaved myself out of bed and headed for the shower.
Chapter Ten
I scrambled around, hunting for the alarm clock on the bedside table. The morning light streamed through the high window and thin skylight in the angled roof.
Nine-thirty. I was alone in bed. Stefan had already risen. I supposed I should have been grateful for a lie-in. I kicked off the duvet and stumbled toward the en suite.
I pinched his white robe, which hung on a hook, and headed downstairs. Stefan was sitting at the dining table, clothed, and surrounded by sheets of music manuscript paper. On one sheet, he scribbled with a pencil. With his head bowed low, he drummed his fingers on the glass surface like piano keys. His concentration looked intense. His fingers didn’t stop moving.
I stayed back, watching, entranced by the composer at work. A man at peace with himself. I felt a little envious—not a worthy sentiment. He glanced up and caught my eye. He bundled the papers into a pile and by the time I reached the table, he had stuffed them in an opaque folder—out of sight.
“What was that?”
“Just…stuff. Breakfast,” he added rapidly. “You must be hungry, especially after last night.”
If he was referring to our sexual escapades, he was right. All that energy burn had made me ravenous.
I didn’t fancy toast. “Do you have cornflakes?”
He laughed. “Sure.”
He pottered in the kitchen, and I munched on my cereal, slurping up spoonfuls of milk.
His telephone rang, a traditional ringtone. He picked up the handset and cursed at the caller display. “Schizer.”
I shrank in my seat, feeling out of place—an intruder.
“Excuse me.” He walked to the other side of the room and spoke to the caller in German. The heated conversation from the previous day was replayed. The same gestures of clenched fist, pacing steps, grimacing expression and exasperated tone.
He slammed the phone down. “Sorry.”
I waited for him to fill me in. He said nothing. Leaning on the back of the sofa, he stared blankly at the wall of glass and beyond, into the garden. My patience wore thin quickly. The sense of being a fifth wheel, trailing behind him, unneeded until the moment he wanted me. It annoyed me, so like—no, I had to stop comparing. My spoon clattered in the empty bowl. He jerked, turning.
“I should go.” I pushed the bowl away. “I’ve stuff to do.”
“No, sorry.” He came across to the dining table. “Please stay. I was going to suggest a pub lunch.”
I had made up my mind. Things had become too intense between us—all the sex and little substantial conversation. He’d fucked me on and off for most of the night, leaving me achy and a little sore. I’d be surprised if he didn’t want a break. A breather would do us both good. “That’s really sweet of you, but I’ve washing, ironing, food to buy and it’s my turn to clean the house. I work full-time, remember?” I wasn’t lying. I’d all those things to do. What I didn’t want to tell him was that the wall he’d just erected between us had created distance and I was happily building on it. “I’ll get dressed.”
He caught my sleeve as I walked by him. “Stay, Callie.”
I hesitated. The temptation was strong, but all I saw was a man who needed space. His head probably lost in composition or maybe family issues. Either way, if he didn’t want to tell me, I couldn’t help him.
Somewhere a mobile bleeped. Stefan screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, but he ignored the message. He traced a finger up my arm, under my chin and tilted it up. “Let me sort a few things. A couple of emails…and…” He kissed my lips, nipping me gently. I sighed into his mouth, closing my eyes. I knew what he desired and it would be so easy to succumb and surrender my body to him.
Another loud bleep. Stefan broke off.
I stepped back, taking the initiative. “I’ll go get dressed.”
His shoulders slumped and I hurried to the bottom of the stairs. By the time I’d returned with my packed bag, he’d fired up his laptop and was busy typing. He snapped the lid down. “Are you sure about this?”
“I’ve had a lovely weekend. Good food. Great sex.”
His rather pained expression left and his face lit up. “The sex was fantastic. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“It’s the best part…of you.” I fumbled for words.
He grinned. “I’m sure you like other parts of me too.”
A rush of warmth flushed about my cheeks. “Yes, of course.”
“I’ll drive you home.” He collected his keys from next to the cookie jar. “Don’t forget Nettie.”
He must have put my clarinet in the case. Part of me didn’t like the idea of him touching her. I grasped the handle and gave a small smile. “Thanks.”
We said little during the journey home in the rain—always, it seemed, in the rain. I thanked him again as he pulled up outside my house and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
“Wednesday. You’ll pick me up?” I hadn’t mentioned my bicycle and I saw no reason to draw attention to my independence, certainly not if it kept raining all week.
“Same time. Look forward to it. You’re going to impress everyone.”
My skin heated again at his kind words. “I’ve had a good teacher. Special lessons.”
“I hope we can repeat them,” he said softly and squeezed my thigh.
“Sure,” I said non-committally.
I c
losed the passenger door and waved goodbye to him through the car window. He’d sped off before I reached the front door.
* * * *
I’d finished all my chores by three p.m. I flopped on the settee and tapped my toes on the carpet. The rain had stopped and the sun blazed through the window. A pub lunch outside would have been nice, except I’d blown him off. Part of me was tempted to go back, see if he was less distracted. Guilt seeped into me. He’d want sex and I didn’t. My needs had moved on into new territory—I wanted Stefan to be a real boyfriend.
I envied bygone generations. The time when people courted, wooed each other and dated until the proposal or a clear indication of commitment. Sex had been tied to marriage and love. In my experience, sex was fucking, an intimate display of lust and desire, but love? I’d thought Micah and I had had it, until after nearly two years it had slowly dawned on me that we’d achieved nothing. Was I about to embark on the same journey with Stefan?
I lusted for sex with Stefan, far more than Micah, with whom I’d fulfilled an obligation. There had to be more to us, Stefan and me. If I’d stayed, even just reading or playing the clarinet while he sorted out his issues, I would have been there for him. Shit. I was a selfish bitch sometimes. He might have wanted sex, but he wasn’t in a hurry, merely a hint of it when he kissed me. I’d made it more, built up the expectation then dismissed him. He’d not put up a barrier. I had.
By early evening, negativity built. I sent him a text. A short message of gratitude for a good time and apology for my abrupt departure. He replied, in the same vein about the good time, but nothing else.
I went to bed early, exhausted by my housework and a weekend of sexual activity. I’d forgotten how, post-sex, I would crash and burn out. No sign of Talia. At least she had a committed boyfriend.
Tomorrow, a fresh day. A fresh mindset. I would bike over to Stefan in the evening and show him I was his. Somehow.
* * * *
I propped my bicycle on the low wall outside his house. I could see lights on through the skylights at the front. He was home. Darkness had descended rapidly. It had taken longer than I’d thought to bike out to Grantchester. I’d wanted to arrive refreshed and in a sensible state of mind, so I’d eaten first.
As I got closer to the front door, I heard music blaring—loud, soaring classical music. A symphony. Mahler, possibly. I rang the doorbell. No answer.
I rang again and tapped my foot on the paving impatiently. The music had to be too loud. He couldn’t hear me. A streetlight lit up the front of the house, but the frontage had no windows. It created an imposing façade of wood, but gave me nowhere to peek in and grab his attention. I wandered down the side of the house to the gate, groping slightly in the darkness. I expected it to be locked. The wheelie bin was out by the curb ready, for the refuse collectors the next day. If I went around the back, he would see me through the windows. I pressed the handle of the tall wooden gate and the catch lifted. He’d left it open.
I rounded the corner of the house. The music grew louder, if that was possible. I edged around a flowerpot, one of many dotting the dimly lit garden. It must have been deafening inside the house. I approached the wall of glass. The bright lights of the studio bathed the decking directly outside the patio doors. The grand piano had the lid up, shiny black and imposing, but it wasn’t what drew my attention.
On the floor on a rug stood Stefan. Dressed in a dark suit, he looked divine. However, he wasn’t alone. On her knees and facing away from him, with her arms straight out in front of her, fingers laced together and her bottom raised high, was a naked, black-haired woman. Crouching on one knee, he looped her ponytail in his outstretched hand. With a flick of his wrist, he jerked her head up, and I saw her face. Her eyes were shut and her mouth hung open, she seemed to be uttering sounds.
He yanked hard on her hair, pulling her up farther and back onto her haunches. His features screwed up and his eyes fixated on the back of the woman’s head. A strange look. Pensive, tense. Not the expression of a man who desired sex—I’d seen that for myself. He let go of her hair, and she slumped forward back onto the floor, peering over her shoulder at him. Something was said between them. He gave a shrug and a shake of his head. I watched, hypnotized by the scene, as he ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling the soft curls. His face remained troubled, ambiguous, and I couldn’t interpret it.
With the darkness outside and the room lit up, I didn’t think he could see me. Not at this distance from the window.
For those few minutes, I froze. Stunned by the sight of Stefan on the cusp of having sex with another woman. The denial seeped away. Anger rose unabated. I covered my mouth, stifling a cry of despair. Nothing mattered anymore. He didn’t want me. Didn’t need me. He had this woman to fuck. I’d thought I’d been adequate for him, but now I doubted my abilities. He sought another.
A dangerous fox, that was what he’d called himself. He was right—bloody right. Tears fogged my eyes. I couldn’t stop them. I stumbled backward and walked straight into a metallic pot. My heel clattered on the edge. I squealed, trying not to fall over, and ended up taking a few paces forward. My face must have lit up behind the glass. Stefan looked directly at me. His eyes widened. He pushed the woman away from him, and she flopped flat onto the floor without protesting. He started to straighten, and in a second, I would see the bulge in his pants. The thought made me nauseated.
I turned and fled. I didn’t want him to see me or follow me. What was the point? I’d seen enough to know I meant nothing to him.
Chapter Eleven
I pedaled home with tears streaming down my face.
A nightmarish, never-ending ride, which so easily could have ended with another disastrous accident. I managed to stay on the bike, wobbling dangerously and struggling to see anything in front of me due to the tears.
With each agonizing mile, I replayed the scene in my head. I railed at Stefan, calling him every foul name I could think of. Cheating bastard. Why had I not picked up on the warning signals?
Dangerous fox. He knew exactly what he was, yet still let me fall into his arms, his bed and, fuck it, his heart. Strange how, when faced with the certain demise of a relationship, my true feelings bubbled to the surface. When I finished with Micah, relief consumed me. I went out and celebrated my liberation, and merely cursed the time I’d wasted with him. I’d missed things, but mostly I knew I was better off without him.
With Stefan, the bitterness emerged quickly, and the regret, but also disappointment. I’d begun to see a future to our relationship, and even with my backing out on Sunday, there had been no sign of discontent on his part. For fuck’s sake, he had asked me to stay, not go.
Clearly, sex was it for him. I’d failed to deliver, so he’d gone to another of his readily available, gullible sex nymphs. Just like me, she stripped for him and lay her soul out to be devoured.
I pulled my bike up the curb, locked it in the shed in the back yard and fumbled for my house key. Abandoning my bike helmet on the kitchen table, I headed to my bedroom and threw my shattered body onto the bed. There I lay, sobbing uncontrollably.
I awoke in the middle of the night, still dressed. I’d cried myself into a state of slumber. I undressed, drank a glassful of water and tumbled back under the covers. I lay awake, wondering how I was going to recover my dignity. The look he had given me through the window was shock. I’d caught him in the act. He couldn’t deny it. Why hadn’t he chased after me, try to explain or justify his actions?
I flitted in my head. I was curious to know why he done what he had, but I also wanted to tell him to get lost. How would I go forward? I couldn’t face knowing the truth, not yet. I switched off my phone.
Car headlights occasionally tracked across the wall of my bedroom. The odd late-night vehicle. I had to be at work early tomorrow and smell all those roses and lilies. Tears trickled down my inflamed cheeks.
Stefan had broken my heart.
* * * *
The texts arrived first thi
ng in the morning. Pleading ones, asking me to ring him. I deleted each one in a haze of anger. He’d left voice messages too. I couldn’t bear to hear his voice, so I erased those without listening.
By the time Bridget arrived at the florist, I’d switched the phone off.
I knew from the bathroom mirror that my eyes were still red and puffy. Her observant eyes would not miss my soulful appearance. She put her arm around my shoulder and gave me a hug. “Not Micah again?”
I shook my head. “Can’t talk about it,” I croaked. My throat hadn’t recovered from my night of bawling. Why was I taking this so hard? We’d barely been together for a couple of weeks and I was behaving as if I’d lost a lifelong lover.
“Oh, sweetie.” She hugged me harder. “Men are fickle, but they’re also simple. Unless you spell it out to them, they’re blind.”
She made me a strong cup of coffee and opened a packet of chocolate digestives.
Everyone assumed Bridget and Al were married, a couple. They were business partners, nothing more. Bridget lived the life of a single woman with passion. Al was happily married to an unassuming woman and between them, they’d raised three children. It made for an interesting time at work. Bridget and Al treated each other with respect, courtesy, but no deep friendship. They rarely met outside of work and didn’t bother with birthday cards or presents. They shared a love of flowers and little else.
Their advice reflected their differing states. Bridget, throughout the day, suggested that life without men was the simplest course of action. “Make friends, not lovers.” Al, on the other hand, said I simply hadn’t met the right man. They batted back and forth, and me in the middle, confused and despondent.
“But I thought I’d made a connection. The music. The…” I couldn’t say the word sex.
“Sex, sweetie, overrated,” capped Bridget with zeal.
Al scowled. “It doesn’t have to be about sex, but if you discover the chemistry, it sustains the relationship.”
