Why Does it Taste so Sweet?

by PJ Adams

  His hands moved away, reaching up to press flat against the wood paneling of the door.

  Those eyes – so intense!

  She released another button, another.

  Now her hand found easier access and she turned it to lie flat against his belly and slid it inside his shorts, second and third fingers parting to go either side of that hard shaft. She felt a pulse in his belly, a twitch in response to her touch, felt him pressing against her palm.

  She pushed her hand down farther, her palm now against the base of his shaft, thumb and fingers wrapped around him. Even partly unbuttoned, his pants were so tight there was almost no room to maneuver her hand. She squeezed. Slowly, gently, then harder, tighter, until his jaw sagged and his eyes widened.

  She leaned forward against him a little more, and that slight shift brought more of her weight to bear on her hand, on his shaft. She felt the skin gliding over the hard core, as she pulled down.

  She needed to release him.

  She twisted her wrist to turn the length of his shaft sideways, then eased it upright, flat against his belly. The heel of her hand pressed hard at the head, slick with his juices so that every slight move elicited another gasp, a tensing of his body, a slight thrust in response.

  And all the time: those dark eyes remained locked on hers.

  He reached down and hooked a thumb into the waist of his pants. With her free hand she took the other side and they eased the pants and shorts down over his hips until they were halfway down his thighs.

  Now, fully free of constraints, his manhood stood long and straight between them. She wrapped her hand around it again and started to pull and twist, letting his wetness slide against her wrist and inner forearm, pumping against him until her fingers came up against his balls and then pulling back, twisting and sliding.

  Both hands flat against the door again, his whole body was tense, held rigid so that the only movement was her hand on him.

  He was close. A few more seconds and there would be a spray of come up her arm, across her front. She wanted to see that, wanted to see the release in his eyes, but not yet...

  She paused, holding the base of his shaft even tighter than before. He groaned, an animal sound of tense frustration as he throbbed in her grip and she thought she might have left it just a moment too late. Then she felt the tension start to ease and she loosened her grip, pulled back along that delicious length, found the end and squeezed again.

  He reached down with both hands, seized the hem of her skirt and hitched it up around her hips. One hand moved back between her legs to cup her, lifting her to her toes against the door, and now it was Emily’s turn to make animal sounds.

  Bending at the knee, he reached down, one hand on her ass the other hooked under her thigh. Now his manhood was against her, pressing at the lace of her panties. She pulled them aside and steered him into place, sliding his length against her wet folds.

  She swiveled her hips, sliding herself against his shaft until the base was against her clit.

  She gasped, close again almost immediately. She’d never known anything like this.

  He pulled her thigh higher so that her leg curled around him and that shift in position changed the angles, bringing the head of his dick to press against her opening.

  He dipped his head and his lips were soft and delicate against hers and then, so slowly, she felt an almost splitting sensation as he entered her. Just the head at first, his movements were so slow and controlled.

  His lips were still gentle, only serving to provide contrast with the hot intensity she felt as he slowly slid inside until his full length was in her and there was a heady pressure on her clit again.

  He drew his head away, eyes still locked on her, urging her on. He knew she was close. He must see what he did to her. Only a slight, brief, smile broke the intensity of that look as he held himself deep inside her, every slight movement amplified because of the angles and the way her weight bore down on the place their bodies joined.

  So close...

  She squeezed, a tightening in the pit of her belly that transmitted itself through her core and now it was Ray’s turn to gasp.

  She squeezed again and this time he pushed back, and she held him tight, against her and inside her, and he made a loud, animal grunt that drew itself out and became a strangled, “Oh, Emily!”

  She kept herself tight, and now his jaw tightened, his head tipping back. A sudden widening of the eyes, a flinching of the whole body, and she felt a pulsing in his shaft, a thrust of his body, pressing him even harder against her. Abruptly, she was there too: her body tightening in response to the first pulse of his climax, so that all she could do was cling to him as the two of them held themselves upright against the door.

  As that sudden, explosive tightening in her belly started to subside, she felt another surge deep inside and then his body slumped.

  Softer now, he slipped out of her, and she felt herself wet with him, spent, exhausted and exhilarated and still surprised that he could make her feel like this.

  She turned her head and kissed him again and then he pulled away and they were laughing, hanging onto each other for all they were worth, Emily leaning back against the door as Ray sagged against her.

  Gasping for breath, as if the two of them had briefly forgotten the basic mechanics of breathing.

  “You okay?” he said, and all she could do was laugh into his shoulder, she was so damned okay right now.

  §

  ‘Rake’ had never been an imaginative nickname. Six foot six and thin as the garden implement he’d been named for; and now his long black hair had become a silver ponytail, pulled hard back from an angular face, which only seemed to emphasize the narrowness of frame and features.

  When Ray opened the door back out of the room, Rake was standing there grinning.

  “Hey, man!” said Ray, stepping forward into a back-slapping embrace. “Hey, dude. This is Emily.”

  Rake’s eyes flicked up and down Emily as she stood there, and she suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious. Her hair must be a mess, her face flushed, her make-up smudged, her clothes disheveled and awry, and the wetness she felt from their love-making only served to make her even more self-conscious. She managed to smile and opened her mouth to speak, but Rake got in first.

  “I heard,” he said simply, and Emily immediately thought of the way Ray had cried out, her name almost unintelligible in that strangled cry.

  She felt her face flushing even more, and then the moment was gone and Ray had slapped Rake on the shoulder and the two of them led the way deeper into the chateau.

  §

  “So tell me,” said Rake, in that deceptively charming Irish lilt of his, “what does Róisín make of all this?”

  They were sitting at a table on a terrace to the rear of the chateau. A long rectangular pond led away from the terrace to a distant iron fence, and woodland beyond. As the last of the evening sun hung on, swallows swooped low over the water and heavy dragonflies hovered and darted over patches of white water lily.

  Ray had always been up front about Róisín. He’d told Emily they were still married, then qualified it with a ‘technically’. They’d been separated for years – everyone knew that, especially a diehard Angry Cans fan like Emily.

  So why did it always come back to Róisín?

  Ray shrugged, and took another long pull from his bottle of 1664. “Róisín is history,” he said, in a tone that brooked no further discussion. “So,” he went on, “is there much more to do? Are we just about done here?”

  In Rake’s company, Ray’s accent took on a few more Irish inflexions. At first Emily had thought this quite an endearing thing, an illustration of their closeness, but now she found it unsettling, a reminder that he had deep roots and they didn’t involve her.

  Her confidence was such a fragile thing these days, and so easily undermined.

  A short time later, Ray’s phone chimed. He took it from his pocket, glanced at it, then said to Emily,
“Sorry: Mo.” Putting the phone to his ear, he said, “Hey, Mo,” and stood to move away from the table. Emily watched him as he walked slowly down by the pond. In this honeyed light, it looked like a scene from an impressionist painting: the figure by the water and the white lilies, the strip of grass to either side, bounded by a dark, clipped hedge.

  “You think he’s really into you?”

  She looked across at Rake, sharply. What did he mean by that?

  He probably didn’t mean anything. He sat back in his chair, cradling his beer in both hands, eyes slit narrowly, almost shut. He was probably just thinking aloud.

  “I do,” she said softly. “For now, at least.”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t mean to be a jerk, you know?” he said. “It’s just... well, I hope he is. Into you, I mean. It’d be good, you know?”

  She realized that was some kind of compliment. “I know,” she said. “I hope he is, too.”

  §

  They slept and made love on repeat, all through the night, and when she woke in the morning he was gone.

  Their room was almost completely white: the bedding, the painted floor, the walls. Was this the room where he’d filmed the video for “Let’s Make This Thing Happen”? Him standing there in black by the window, his guitar slung low.

  But he wasn’t there. Just whiteness, and morning sunlight flooding in through those windows.

  She found her bags in a dressing room through one of the doorways. She pulled on some jeans and a silk camisole top and set out through the house. Opening doors at random, she found more bedrooms, mostly painted white and furnished sparsely. At the end of one corridor she found a music room. A grand piano occupied one corner, and a dozen guitars stood on stands by the walls. A drum kit, an electronic keyboard and a closed Mac laptop on a card table completed the set-up.

  But no Ray.

  Downstairs, she stopped in the lobby and peered around. Just as she was wondering what to do now, a door opened and a tall, brunette woman emerged. For a heart-stopping moment she thought it was Róisín, then she noted the fuller figure, the collar-length hair, the smile.

  “Ah, bonjour,” said the woman. “I am Justine. I get you breakfast, yes? The boys, they are in the studio. Mr Sandler asked me to look out for you, no?”

  She let Justine make strong black coffee for her and she went out to the terrace with that and a croissant.

  Let them work. She could get used to this. Such a beautiful place, and such a laid back pace of life. She liked the way Justine spoke of ‘Mr Sandler’ in the same breath as ‘the boys’. So relaxed.

  She checked her phone, but there were no messages, then she realized she didn’t even care. Let the world carry on without her for a while.

  3

  “I have to go back,” she said.

  Early afternoon and he’d finally emerged from the studio. He looked pale and there were dark shadows under his eyes. How early had he slipped away to start working? As soon as he saw her, the spark was back and he came across, meeting her as she stood, holding her, kissing her.

  “Hey,” he said. “God that’s so damned good.”

  But she had to go back.

  “Why? Why the rush?”

  She laughed. “Remember you didn’t consult me about all this?” she said. “Remember how you just whisked me away from Kayleigh’s wedding and said we were flying to France?”

  “Details, details,” he said.

  “Well I have to be back at work tomorrow. Douglas Hamilton gave me a few days off to get sorted out, but it’s Monday tomorrow, time to get back.”

  For a moment he had the air of a surly child, then he shrugged and grinned and he said, “You could commute.”

  And if she’d wanted to, she knew he would have arranged it. A flight and a car from here would probably be quicker than a lot of people’s daily journeys to work in London, after all.

  She shook her head. “Nutter,” she said. “In the nicest possible way.”

  “We won’t be much longer here,” said Ray. “Rake’s done wonders. It’s really coming together. It’s so good to be working with him again. So good to see him clean like this.”

  Clean. She knew about Rake’s track record with drink and drugs. That was supposed to be one of the things that had torn the Angry Cans apart: Rake and Ray getting wasted and starting to fight.

  “That’s really good,” she said. “It’s lovely to see the two of you like this.” There was such a buzz between the two of them. On the one hand she should probably feel offended that Ray was so focused on the album, but on the other... how often do you get to see what was probably going to be a landmark work of art being put together like this? And to know that she was in some small way a part of it, an inspiration, as he kept telling her?

  “I’ll get Justine to sort out a car and flight,” he said. The people around Ray tended to work like that: just as Mo wasn’t merely a minder, Justine was clearly more than someone who made breakfast for guests. People who worked for Ray were trusted. “Have you thought about where you’re going to stay?”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “I’ve got it all worked out.”

  Sitting there alone in the sun that morning, she’d texted Marcia:

  Coming home today. That okay? xx

  About twenty minutes later, a reply had come through:

  All cool hun. Got yr key? xx

  “You going to be okay?”

  “I’m going to be okay.”

  “I’ll tell Justine to make arrangements.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It won’t be for long.”

  “I know.”

  This was like one of those lovers’ telephone conversations where neither wants to be the first to hang up.

  “I’ll tell–”

  “–Justine. Thank you.”

  He kissed her, his touch delicate, a brief pressing of lips. “I really do love you.”

  And suddenly her voice was gone. All she could do was settle into his arms, and wonder how she’d ever ended up here, with him, like this.

  §

  Marcia’s place was spotless, as ever. Soft music was playing, a jug of coffee was on, its nutty, roast aroma permeating the apartment. It was a bit like somewhere in the process of being sold, the owner consciously following all the rules for making a good impression.

  Emily saw all this over her friend’s shoulder as she stood awkwardly in the living room doorway. Emily had let herself in, making enough noise so that Marcia wouldn’t be startled by her sudden appearance.

  She dropped her two bags at her feet, looked up again, past Marcia, and then finally met her old friend’s look.

  Marcia smiled, falteringly, her features looking even more angular in the light coming through from the living room. After a long pause, she said, “I don’t know what the question is, but I’m guessing wine might be the answer?”

  Emily stepped forward, and then they were in each other’s arms, a brief hug that started off awkward and then, just as they started to pull apart, a second squeeze transformed it into something else. Old times. History. All the times they’d turned to each other support. All the good times, too. That: in a brief, secondary squeeze.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” said Emily, and followed her friend through into the living room.

  §

  “I was drunk,” said Marcia. “That’s no excuse, I know, but it’s how it was, it’s an explanation. It was a work thing, I think. I don’t really remember.”

  Emily didn’t want to know the details about Marcia and Thom, but she had to. They both understood that. If she knew then she could do something with the knowledge. If she didn’t it would fester, fed by all the unanswered questions and doubts.

  “You weren’t there, though. And I didn’t want to be. So there was this guy. I’d been stood up and this guy looked kind of familiar and he brought me a drink. And he said, ‘You don’t even know who I am, do you?’ So I looked at him and then I knew why he looked familiar.
He was Thom. He was kind. I hadn’t expected that. He said I looked like I needed some help and he could give me a lift, make sure I was okay. Look... are you sure you want to know?”

  Marcia was the one who was crying, as she sat there clutching her wine glass, sitting forward in her chair.

  Emily nodded. “I need to,” she said.

  “It was pathetic. He drove me home, walked me to my door. Just to be sure I was okay, he said.”

  It had happened here, at Marcia’s place! Of course it had: it had to have happened somewhere.

  “I opened the door and he said would I be okay again and then I kind of grabbed him. It was me. I was drunk and angry with the world and it was pathetic.”

  “It wasn’t just you.”

  Marcia looked down into her drink, then continued. “We did it. He looked just about as embarrassed as I felt. He left. He almost ran. I thought then that it was a one-off. Just something that had happened because of a fluke of circumstances and it had scared him, and if that’s how it was then telling you would just wreck everything, so I kept quiet. But then I asked around, and heard enough stories to know that it had been more than just me, but by then I was already lying to you and covering up and I knew that if I said anything it would all come out. I think that was worse than anything: I couldn’t tell you what he was like. All I could do was watch while your marriage limped on.”

  “I knew what he was like. I just thought he had changed. He hadn’t.”

  “I should have said.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Should have.”

  “Whatever.”

  Marcia glanced up and the two of them held eye contact for just long enough to know that it was going to be okay, the two of them.

  “If it helps at all,” said Marcia, “he didn’t make me come.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Yeah, but your bitch.”

  “Too right.”

  Emily sat back and drained her glass.

  “So how are things with you?” asked Marcia. “Still shagging rock stars?”

  “I am,” said Emily, and now she smiled. “And it’s something I’d recommend.”

  “Things good?”