by Julie Caplin
‘Sorry, can you come back?’ I hastily picked up one of the leather-bound menus.
With a polite nod, clearly used to customers who had other things on their minds than food, he backed away.
‘What do you recommend?’ I asked.
‘I had the Rogan Josh last time and it was amazing. I might have it again.’
‘No, you can’t,’ I said. ‘You have to have something different, as Sophie would say, it’s …’
‘Good for your food education,’ he chorused.
‘Exactly, I’m glad she encouraged us …’
‘Encouraged? You mean bullied.’ Ben lifted his wine in silent toast. ‘To Miss Whiplash.’
‘Encouraged,’ I reprimanded him. ‘And you can’t possibly call her that.’
‘True.’
‘She’s Little Miss Sunshine,’ I paused, although she’d been not quite so sunny last time I’d spoken to her, but that was between us, I didn’t need to share it with Ben. ‘She was great about getting us to try new things, although I have to admit I never thought I’d like herring.’
‘Me neither.’ He laughed. ‘But I wonder if they’re like Retsina in Greece. Tastes great when you’re there but don’t travel well.’
‘Don’t say that, I was all set to borrow a bike some time.’
‘Really?’ Ben inclined his head in one of those searching sceptical gestures.
‘Well, I was certainly thinking about it,’ I admitted.
He gave me an approving grin. ‘Fancy a trip out sometime?’
‘I’m game if you are.’ I met his look head on.
‘The forecast is good next weekend.’ His steady gaze set off the bubbles in my stomach sensation again.
‘Well that’s a relief. Kagoules and weatherproof trousers are in short supply in my wardrobe.’ And not a dress code I fancied. Hardly attractive, although without being big headed, from the heated looks we’d been exchanging, I don’t think the lifeboat rescue look would have fazed him.
The poor waiter had to come back three times before we were finally ready to order and then it was a bit of a rush because we still hadn’t looked. In the end, we opted for Lamb Rogan Josh, Dum Aloo, a potato in creamy yoghurt sauce, pilau rice and a curry called Nadroo Yakhni, because it was made with lotus stem and Sophie’s training had rubbed off.
‘We might never get to try it again,’ I reasoned as the waiter disappeared taking our order.
‘I’m pretty sure, we could come back here.’ His lazy observation made my stomach tighten in quick anticipation. ‘But, if it’s awful, I’ll blame you.’ His eyes darkened, the incipient threat of some punishment dancing on the air between us.
‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’ I said, lifting my neck and chin to advantage, brushing back one of the loose curls, giving him a direct look of challenge.
‘I’m saving it for later.’ His naughty smile stopped me dead and I think I might have gulped. He was good at this. Suddenly I regretted the challenge, because he’d taken it up. More than taken it up, he’d declared all out war and my body was all for surrendering immediately.
And he pushed his advantage when the food arrived, pulling every dirty trick in the book.
Insisting that I try things from his fork and he try food from mine.
When he moaned at the taste of Nadroo, his eyes calculatingly held mine. When I missed a bit of rice, his finger scooped it up and lifted it into my mouth, his fingers grazing my lips with deliberate intent.
It was every cliché you could think of and then some, each of us trying to outdo the other.
By the time Ben fed me the last piece of Naan, his fingers lingering on my lips, my whole body was on a low simmer. As his forefinger skimmed my bottom lip, acting on pure instinct and lust, I quickly sucked in the tip delighting at his shocked gasp, clenching my thighs together. This was as much torture for me as him.
‘Can I get you the dessert menu?’ asked the waiter.
‘No,’ we said together, our eyes now meeting, all pretence at subtlety gone.
Ben paid for dinner, despite my demurs; I didn’t put up much of a fight. I’d get the next one. I just wanted to get out of there and quick.
‘Shall we go? Before …’ asked Ben rising to his feet, suddenly swallowing and I smiled at his uncharacteristic diffidence, the dip of his Adam’s apple making me feel naughty, wanton and impetuous. Lots of things that I’d never felt … ever. This sense of being empowered. Equal. Nothing to lose.
‘Before what?’ I asked, my voice lowering, thrilling to the power of being uncharacteristically suggestive.
He drew in a ragged breath, skirting the table and grabbing my hand, sending the nerve endings at the apex of my thighs, into an unladylike flutter and kerfuffle. Sudden warmth making me agitated and hurried. I wanted him with an urgency that left me breathless and fidgety.
‘Before things get out of hand,’ he muttered hoarsely into my ear.
I sucked in a breath and he smiled again. Not quite smug but sure and a touch satisfied, perhaps possessive. In that second, I vowed I’d wipe that look off his face … later, much later, but in the meantime I was going to make him pay for it.
We hurried out of the restaurant into the street and three strides out, we stopped and he hauled me into his arms, his back against a shop window, I think.
I stood on tip toe and kissed him again, my tongue touching the edge of his lips, feathering along his lower lip and then skimming the top lip. His low groan was worth every bit of the frustration I felt.
With a sudden, desperate jerk he pushed me away, his lips sliding to my ear.
‘Kate,’ his breathy words whispered, warm on my skin, ‘Do you want to come back to my place?’
I turned my head, our eyes meeting. My heart pounded so fast and hard, as the moment weighed heavy between us, I was sure he could hear it or at least feel it in the air.
‘Yes,’ I whispered into his mouth, as his lips closed over my words in a soul sucking kiss that held strains of gratitude, relief and desperation, want, need and determination.
‘This way.’ He tugged at my hand, his fingers tightly woven between mine, pulling me through the crowds on the pavement in the early summer evening.
He missed the keyhole several times, but that was perhaps since we’d got in the lift we hadn’t stopped kissing, and he had one hand pulling down the top of my zip and I was attacking the buttons on his shirt, which had been yanked out of his waist band. All the simmering feelings in the restaurant had exploded into completely mutual full on raging lust.
We burst through the door and he kicked it shut behind him, sliding a hand into the top of my dress and pulling it down in one fluid move. I toed off my shoes and stepped out of the dress as it pooled around my ankles, into his arms, sighing at the touch of his bare chest on my skin. His lips traced their way along my jaw and down my neck before working back up. Our mouths fused again and his hands were sliding down over my bottom, stroking and pulling me to him, where I could feel his erection taut against the fabric of his trousers, the cold of his belt on my stomach. I wound my hands around his neck, stroking the short hair at the back, my chest rubbing his.
His hands rode up, skimming my boobs, before sliding to the back and in one neat practised move undid the clasp.
‘You’ve done this before,’ I breathed into his mouth and then gasped as a firm warm hand smoothed over my breast, fingertips zeroing in on the nipple. I moaned at the sudden mix of heat, want, frustration and desire burning between my legs, pushing harder against him.
‘Christ, Katie.’ His mouth slid down my chin, his lips replacing his fingers.
My knees almost buckled at the touch of his warm tongue, swirling its way around my tight nipple. Oh! Tighter and tighter, so tight it might explode any second. I whimpered, the feeling just too much. Everything was going so fast but it felt … ummm. He took the nipple right into his mouth … aaargh, sucking, hot and fast. Words spilled. More, ahh, pleeease, yessss.
Head
back, mindless, all I could feel was the heat of his mouth, sucking and licking, on one side clever fingers teasing and torturing, rolling and touching my other nipple sending tiny darts of pleasure so intense they were almost painful. I squirmed under his touch, breathless with want.
The explosive need thrilled and shocked me, making me wanton, craving more. My hands raced over his warm, taut skin, my fingers tracing the soft hair arrowing down below his belt. I stroked the waistline, my fingers dipping below, stroking the fabric over his erection, spurred on by his heartfelt groan.
His mouth moved back to mine, his body pushing me against the wall, his lips roving, his tongue sliding into my mouth with an electric touch.
The kisses got deeper and dirtier, and then something flicked the detonator switch and we passed into desperate.
My hands made short work of his belt, pushing down his trousers, while he pushed my pants aside, his fingers sliding straight between my legs, I grasped his erection. Gasps and groans filled the air as we slid down the wall to the floor. He kicked off his trousers and pulled away my pants and suddenly we were naked on the cool wooden floor of the hallway, kissing, trying to get closer still.
‘Katie,’ gasped Ben hoarsely, his hands holding my hips. I could feel his fingers firm, gripping the bones.
‘Mmm,’ I groaned, relishing the feel of skin on skin. Every bit of me felt on fire and I wanted to be consumed by the flames.
‘I need to get …’
‘Pill. I’m on the pill.’
With his hand, he nudged my legs open, his fingers feeling their way.
I moaned loud and long, pushing my pelvis up to meet that clever, questing touch.
‘Oh God. Katie?’
‘Yes, please, now.’
He settled between my legs, the tip of his penis pushing at me and I widened my legs, tilting my hips, welcoming the sensation of him nudging and filling.
‘Mmmm,’ I panted, as he inched inwards, the sensation sweet and addictive. I wanted more and I tilted. He took the invitation sliding home and then retreating. Heaven and hell, thrust and retreat, I clutched his back trying to pull him deeper, wanting to hold him, feeling him solid and strong inside me.
I pulsed around him as he pumped furiously and I relished every slam home, sucking in a heartfelt breath as I tried to grip, hold him and then he pushed one last time, with a loud guttural groan before holding still and I felt my muscles tighten, the sensation of reaching the end, finishing that impossible race, rushing over me, as the climax burst, rippling in shades of pleasure, over and over.
We lay there, stuck together with a slight sheen of sweat, him still inside me, his weight heavy on me, his head buried in my neck. I felt utterly limp and supine, despite the cold floor beneath my back and bottom.
Ben groaned, nuzzling my neck. ‘Bloody hell, woman. I think you might just have killed me.’ He started to shift, sending a starburst of sensation.
‘Don’t move. Not yet.’
He settled, a lazy hand skimming my breast as his head lifted and two dazed eyes stared down at me.
‘You OK?’ he asked.
‘Mmmm,’ I said sighing.
‘Sure you don’t want to move? I do have a bed and everything.’
I summoned up enough energy to giggle. ‘What constitutes everything?’
‘You know, pillows, duvet, mattress.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you say before?’ I muttered, stretching a little as the hard floor began to bite.
He laughed and slid his body from mine, rising to his knees and pulling me up.
‘You didn’t give me a chance,’ he complained.
‘I didn’t give you a chance?’
‘No. Come on let me introduce you to comfort.’ He tucked me into his body, his hands skimming down my back to cup my cold bottom and shuffled me backwards towards the door to our right.
I turned my head to see the pristine bed, with grey cotton duvet cover and started to laugh. ‘You do have a bed and everything. So why …?’ I nodded back at the hallway.
‘What’s a bloke to do? I wasn’t going to mess up the moment,’ said Ben, leading me towards the bed and lifting the cover.
‘Of course not,’ I agreed, giving a little shiver.
‘Come here.’ Together we slid in, my leg slipping between his and my head resting on his shoulder. ‘I thought we could come back here for coffee and dessert, seems like we jumped the gun, a bit.’
I nuzzled at his throat where tiny bristles were starting to break through. ‘I’m always up for seconds.’
Ben’s hand skimmed down, brushing my breast. ‘Funny, I was hoping you might say that.’
The boy needed black out blinds. It was half seven in the morning and sunlight filled the room. He lay on his back, one arm thrown behind his head. I studied his face, the stubble breaking out on his squared off chin, the hollows in his cheekbones. As I studied him, my stomach flipped over realising again just how good looking he was. And that was even before you took in the body. I gave a slight shiver, remembering the feel of masculine legs against mine, the dip of his stomach, the smooth taut skin over his hip bones.
I sighed and burrowed into the pillows, smiling at the smell of clean sheets. I dozed for a while but couldn’t get back to sleep. It was bloody Sunday. Ben looked so peaceful and tempting as it was to gently wake him, I couldn’t bear to. Instead I slipped out of bed to explore the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea.
I drew a blank, no milk. Looking at my watch which I still wore, I decided to slip out and grab some milk and perhaps something for breakfast.
Grabbing my handbag which was still in the hall, the contents spewed across the floor where I’d dropped it last night, I scooped the contents back in place, including my mobile which had a load of message alerts on the screen. With a quick glance back through the door at Ben’s sleeping form, the duvet tucked around his waist leaving an enticing view of gently muscled chest and dark hair, I sighed, tempted to crawl back in and wake him up.
But if I went out now, we could stay in bed later. With that happy thought, I left the door on the latch and skipped out into the morning. I left the lobby door on the latch too, hoping no diligent neighbours would close it while I was gone. Luckily, down the street I could see a parade of shops. There was bound to be a newsagent open, for milk.
As I crossed the road, I scanned my text messages.
WTF! Sunday Inquirer!
Megan’s text stopped me dead not quite in the middle of the road but near enough.
I opened up my phone screen to read the message in full and almost tripped up the kerb.
WTF! Sunday Inquirer! Have you seen the article on hygge today? Call me when you’ve seen it. Megan.
I smiled to myself; Ben had said the article was done. He’d clearly done us proud. I headed into the newsagent, catching sight of a coffee shop. I dithered about whether to grab a pint of milk and decided against it. I’d grab two coffees and hopefully some reasonably fresh pastries. Picking up the paper, I paid for it and headed to the rather inappropriately named Pump and Grind, which made me grin.
They’d literally just opened and the surly young man had to push the hair out of his eyes to focus on me as I gave the order.
‘Just switched on, will be a minute,’ he muttered.
‘I’ll wait.’ I sat down and began to rifle through the paper, a satisfied smile on my face. This was a good result. It took a lot to impress Megan; Ben had obviously come up trumps in his article. The press trip had delivered. Bloody Josh could stick that in his pipe and smoke it.
The article was in the middle of the paper. Ben had a by-line, next to the headline.
Hygge or Hype? – Happiness or Hokum.
With my heart beat picking up a pace, nerves suddenly alert, I read the article, scanning the words quicker and quicker, picking out the pertinent phrases.
A passing fad.
Candles and cashmere.
A cynical attempt by marketers to emulate a deep seated cultu
ral psyche that simply doesn’t translate to the British way of life. A cultural chasm that can’t be bridged with cosy and convivial. A simplistic quick fix philosophy of happiness that won’t wash in our country where deep seated divides and nationally shared values shape our outlook.
There was more, a whole double page spread of more but I’d read enough. Ben had slated the whole concept of hygge, mocking the idea of happiness and trashing the whole Hjem campaign.
Every word sliced into my heart.
I stood up, left a fiver on the counter and walked out, putting one foot in front of the other, my vision blurred.
I walked for a while … much longer than a while, switching my mobile phone off to stop the rush of texts and calls, none of which I looked at. After walking along several unfamiliar streets, I came to a road and saw the landmark of Ealing Common. At this time of day, it was quiet, the quiet hum of the odd car, around its borders, only the detritus of empty wine bottles, discarded beer cans and charred trays of charcoal hinting how crowded it would be again in a matter of hours.
I sat on a bench irritated by the mess and dumping the rumpled newspaper and my bag on the seat, I began angrily scooping up nearby bottles and chucking them in the bin. I couldn’t think straight with all this rubbish around me, I needed a clear space.
The physical activity as I stomped about, picking up other people’s crap, somehow made me feel a lot better. I fizzed with a barrage of emotion, anger at other people’s thoughtlessness, irritation at their laziness, impatient that they couldn’t see it for themselves and annoyance that I had to step in and do it and exasperation that people would assume that someone else would do it for them … my fingers stilled on the neck of a beer bottle and I sank back onto the bench.
I should have seen the signs with Ben. He’d always been sceptical. I should have known better. People only did those things if they were allowed to get away with them.
The revelation settled on me, little bits of jigsaw slotting into place, one by one and I almost didn’t know where to start. Ben, I pushed to the bottom of the list. I couldn’t deal with that much hurt at the moment.
