by Primula Bond
‘Mine too,’ she said. ‘Although I’d wish I’d known you were going through that. I could have helped.’
‘Mop up the sick, no thanks.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘I know, but that’s what it would have amounted to. I’m so sorry I didn’t meet you on the day you left, but it was affecting me badly that morning – shitty timing.’
‘You’re forgiven.’
‘I was mad to send you away.’ He blinked. ‘When I was in hospital, I finished your song. The Two-Finger Float. Would you like to hear the end?’
‘Yes, please.’
He led her by the hand into the music room. He was a little thinner, she thought, as she watched him sit at the piano. He moved as if he was hurting.
‘Will, are you sure you’re up to this?’
‘I’m up to a lot more than playing the piano, Miss Crane, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ He winked at her, before closing his eyes and bowing his head over the keys; holding himself in a reverential little silence as though he offered up a prayer to the piano gods, before he began to play.
She watched his face, and she was reminded of her dream, but all the darkness was gone, and now there was just a fierce love that spilled out of her, a passion that was underlined by the music he was playing.
There was no longer a soft ending, but a building, clashing crescendo, although somehow he’d managed to thread the quieter ripples of her orgasm through it, and suddenly she realised what he’d done. In the original version of his song, she had climaxed alone, but in this version they were climaxing together in a glorious wave of oneness.
She was weeping by the time he’d finished. She moved across to him and knelt by the piano stool, her knees digging into the wooden floor. ‘Oh Will, it’s fantastic ... amazing ... I don’t have the words.’
He nodded, put his hands on her shoulders, then he drew her gently to her feet.
He kissed her nose and then her lips and she felt a flicker of response in her groin. How was it possible to feel so moved by him one moment and the next so turned on, all she wanted to do was rip off his clothes?
He released her mouth and his eyes told her he knew exactly what she was thinking.
‘Are you hot?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘I think you are. I think you need to remove your blouse.’ He undid the top two buttons as he spoke and she felt her nipples harden in response to the look on his face.
‘What you did to me yesterday,’ he said, undoing another button and slipping his hand inside both blouse and bra, ‘was one of the most exciting things anyone has ever done to me in my life. And I intend ...’ She moaned as he tweaked her nipple none too gently. ‘To pay you back in full.’ He dispensed with the last few buttons and she shrugged the blouse off her shoulders so it fell in a soft pool of cream on the floor, her bra swiftly following so she was naked to the waist. ‘Now the skirt,’ he said, making a grab for the zip.
‘I thought you were supposed to be recuperating.’
‘My doctor said gentle sex was fine.’ He grinned. ‘I did ask her.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ She let him remove her panties, lifting each bare foot to make it easier for him. ‘How come you’re still fully dressed?’
‘We will redress that in a moment. Don’t be so impatient.’ Dropping to his knees he moved down her body, leaving a trail of kisses and making her skin tingle with fire.
‘There’s something I’ve always wanted to do,’ he said, looking up at her.
‘Oh?’ She smiled at him, but before she could say anything else he lifted her up and sat her on the lid of the piano. She gave a little gasp as her bottom made contact with the cool wood.
‘Are you sure this can take my weight?’
‘It can take both our weights,’ he said, pushing her shoulders gently down, so that she was lying flat out, her back slightly arched on the polished rosewood, her hair spreading out in a dark circle around her. Then he returned his attention to her legs, which were slightly parted, hanging over the edge. Gently, he lifted up her knees and pressed them out and, in the same smooth movement, he lowered his head between her legs.
‘Fuck,’ she said, as he ran his tongue along her slit in an ecstatic slide of feeling, before coming back to concentrate on her clit.
‘All in good time,’ he murmured. ‘Are you comfy back there?’
‘Mmmmmmm.’ Her murmur morphed into a little cry as his tongue swirled and teased and she felt her orgasm building. ‘God, Will ... what ... are you doing to me?’
He was too busy to answer her. His tongue was doing amazing things to her. Little whispers of orgasm were radiating out from her clit, little wavelets of bliss, and she was reminded once again of the sea and the music he’d written for her. At the last moment, he slipped a finger inside her and she rode her orgasm in on wave upon wave of ecstasy.
He watched her come, his gaze on the most intimate folds of her body. She could feel herself contracting around his finger and his eyes drinking in the view. And knowing he was watching the pulsing pleasure he’d given her made it all the more wonderful.
‘Oh, God,’ she said, when he finally lifted his head and grinned at her. She sat up, swallowing tears, still lost in intimacy. ‘No one has ever done anything as amazing as that to me.’
‘How utterly remiss of them. And that, madam, was just your starter,’ he added, leaning forward to kiss her so she could taste herself on him, before tugging off his thin sweatshirt and tossing it onto the floor. ‘Sorry about the junkie look,’ he said, nodding at the needle marks on his arms. He sounded suddenly shy and she was very aware of his vulnerability, of his attempts to hide his illness from her. His attempts to pretend all was normal. She remembered when she’d asked him what colour his hair was and he’d told her he couldn’t remember – the lightness of his voice hiding the shadows in his heart. He’d coped for so long on his own in a misguided attempt to protect her – and to protect himself. She was determined he would never have to do it again.
She touched the softness of his shaved head and traced her fingers across the bruises on his arms. ‘I love you, Will Falcon. Now get the rest of your kit off – now!’
‘You’re such a romantic,’ he said, complying with her demands, until he too was naked, his erection standing out proudly.
He moved back to the piano, she was now perched on the edge of it, and he stood between her legs, his cock pressing hotly against her inner thigh.
‘Are we really going to make love on your piano?’
‘We are,’ he said, shifting her forwards a little.
‘I didn’t know how wonderful making love could be until I met you.’ She would cry again if she wasn’t careful. She was breaking apart beneath the tenderness in his eyes.
‘Ditto.’ He looked at her, and his voice was husky gold as he said, ‘Do you remember when I said there was only one of us in the room?’
‘How could I forget?’
‘You asked me what it meant,’ he said, nudging her open with his fingers and sliding in the tip of his cock – just the tip so she felt as though she were poised on the edge of some giant precipice.
‘I remember.’ She gave a little gasp, shuffling forward on the wood, pressing herself against him, trying to draw him a little deeper, but he held her still.
‘I was going on about some universal consciousness,’ he said. ‘And that’s true as well, I think we are all part of some greater consciousness, but what I really meant was that I feel so much a part of you, there is barely any separation. I feel like you’re a mirror to my soul, a reflection of me, a soulmate. Does that make sense?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, knowing her eyes were glazing over with lust because she wanted him so much.
He slipped a little deeper and his cock flexed inside her.
‘Will, for God’s sake, just fuck me.’
‘I’m trying to be romantic here,’ he grumbled.
‘Just ... please ...’ she
squirmed against him. ‘Please ...’
‘I love it when you beg.’ He licked his lips and she could see the sweat of need on his face and knew that his amazing self-control hung by a whisper.
‘I’m begging,’ she said, in case there could be any doubt. ‘I want you. I need you, Will ... Right ...fucking ... now!’
‘You’ve got me.’ On the word “me” he tugged her towards him and simultaneously drove into her, and she felt as though the whole world was made of light. ‘I love you, Natalie Crane,’ he gasped, as he drove deeper and deeper until she was full of him, melting around him, devouring him. She tilted backwards, wrapped her legs around his back, drawing him closer so they were skin against skin, stretched out now full-length on the rosewood lid of the baby grand. They soared upwards on a sensation that was made up of scent and sound as well as taste and touch.
There is only one of us in this room. She knew at last what he meant. There was no separation, no line, no longer any barriers at all. There was only the gorgeous, building sweet crescendo towards joy. And in that instant of exploding light, in that instant where the physical was transcended by something both brighter and infinitely darker, there was no separation between them at all.
Drawn by DD Byrne
Chapter One
Clasped in her partner’s arms, the woman gazed at the bay of Naples. Neapolitan lights surrounded the bay and the blood orange full moon’s reflection rippled on the sea. Across the bay, the black hulk of Mount Vesuvius stretched toward the darkening sky.
I laid the open travel brochure on my bed. Maybe I should treat myself to a holiday. Without Tom by my side, there wasn’t much to look forward to. Was there anything exciting about a woman in her 30s touring alone? As I flicked to the next page, I could almost taste the food, savour the smells emanating from rustic backstreet grocers, and soak in the sea, but there’d be nobody to share it with. A sigh rose from my lips as I glanced at the couple in the photograph, imagining what they would do next. They’d enter a swanky restaurant where they’d order a spicy meal with an exotic name that meant nothing to them, while drinking wine they could buy in Asda. The intoxication of Naples would satisfy them and they’d lose themselves in sexual heat before they slept in each other’s arms. But at least they’d have each other. A holiday is exactly what you need, I told myself. It’ll get you away from here … even if it’s only for a short time. And you never know; you may even find a man who’d do all that for you.
Hah! There was more chance of Vesuvius erupting. I folded the brochure and dropped it on my bedside locker. As I lay on my bed, I looked down at my body. Just because I was 35, it didn’t mean that I didn’t crave sex. Far from it. Desires once ignited can’t be extinguished. Just like the woman in the brochure, I wanted to be clasped in a man’s arms and to know I meant everything to him. I yearned for the scent of aftershave near my cheeks and passionate sex with a lover who surrendered himself only to me.
In the warm glow of my large bedroom, I sat upright against the headboard, remembering better times. One look to the right-hand side of my bed, and even then, I couldn’t comprehend that Tom was no longer there with me. I closed my eyes and lay my head back against the pillow. For 13 years, I was married to the guy of my dreams. Sure, he wasn’t Brad Pitt, but then again I wasn’t exactly Angelina Jolie. But what we had should have lasted a hell of a lot longer than it did.
I cast my mind back to the night, two years ago, when I was rudely awakened at 4.37 by a visit from the police. I’d trembled as I stood barefoot in the cold, stone-tiled hallway while a sympathetic officer tried to soften the bad news. “Mrs Stella Brookes? Yes. We’re sorry to tell you, but your husband’s been involved in a road traffic accident.” Each day after that, I felt like I was trudging through a barren desert, desperately seeking respite from the long, weary days and cold nights without him.
Now, I only possessed three tangible pieces of evidence that Tom and I had ever lived together: our gold wedding rings in my bedside drawer, the Caesarean scar on my stomach, and my daughter, Maddy. On his bedside locker, I still kept a framed photograph of Tom with his mischievous smile, captured just after he and Maddy had a play fight with the hosepipe. During the long nights without him, I’d stare at his face trying hard to remember all the good times. But now, the memories are fading away – just like the hollow on Tom’s side of the mattress where, after our climaxes, he would roll over onto his back and gently hold me until I slept. For two years, there had been no one to hold me, no whispered words of love, and all our dreams had scattered like autumn leaves in the wind. All I desired was the thrill of human hands exploring my body – even if it was just one more time. For that to happen, I would have to let go of the past, move on, and let another man move in.
So there I lay at two o’clock in the morning, on the second anniversary of Tom’s death, still dressed and sleep deprived with nobody to talk with. I’d shaken the last remnants of hot chocolate into my mug and taken a sleeping tablet, but my mind raced with nostalgic memories. If I’d fallen asleep that night, I never would have heard a clatter outside my house and crept over to the bedroom window to investigate.
Shadows loomed from parked cars and elms, cast by the amber glow of streetlamps. All curtains were closed and lights out in the semi-detached houses along the avenue. Opposite my house, under the flickering streetlamp the council hadn’t fixed, two young women embraced in its strobe-effect. The taller woman, with the rainbow hair and strange make-up, smoothed her lover’s long, dark hair behind her ears. She kissed her girlfriend’s lips and pulled in tight so their bodies fused together. Nuzzled into each other’s necks, their laughter echoed through the barren avenue. For that moment, they were the only two people in the world who mattered.
Behind the net curtains, I watched them leave and disappear under the shadow of an elm and my heart tightened. Their silence suggested their lovemaking had recommenced and there I was, in my home with nobody to hold. So many things had changed in the world since I had met and lost Tom. A whole lifetime had evolved, and I was captive to the past, unable to rouse myself from a life of shadows and ghosts. There was a time when kissing boys was done secretly, but now it didn’t seem to matter. I’d been happy knowing that Tom had been my one and only sexual encounter, but rather than benefitting from that, it had turned me as good as frigid and unable to view sex from other perspectives. The sexual revolution had gained pace and left me behind with my Victorian attitudes. Without knowing it, I’d become like my parents.
Standing by the window, I heard laughter echo along the avenue, and I was jealous for the two young lovers’ happiness. But surely, that’s what life’s all about, I told myself. To find someone who makes you happy, and love each other with every breath.
I gazed toward the sky, stretched out like black, sequinned fabric, with Venus shining bright among all the other stars. On warm summer evenings, Tom and I liked to lie upon sun loungers in the garden. With glasses of white wine, we talked until the late hours until we emptied the bottle, and felt intoxicated from alcohol and mutual love. Night air chilled us and goosepimples rose on our skin. Indoors, feeling flushed from the wine, we would lose ourselves in semi-inebriated sexual passion.
Clutching my sides, I sighed. Those evenings were a distant memory. Venus shone for others that night, and the darkness only increased the measure of loneliness swallowing me. So I pulled the curtains and hid myself in the soft amber light that caressed the bedroom.
My haggard reflection haunted me as I undressed in front of the full-length mirror. Long caramel curls shaped like flames framed my face, but I looked old and pale. Jesus, Stella, I thought. Look at those baggy eyes and crow’s feet. Concealer? Cement more like! Who am I trying to kid? Who the hell will want me when I look like a tired old hag? Forget it … they’re going to have to be blind or bloody desperate! But my blue eyes still retained that irresistible sparkle that had attracted men. And that was the problem – the attractions were getting less frequent. I brushed my hair
as it draped over my shoulders and rested just above my nipples. My 36-inch bust had stayed relatively firm. A healthy lifestyle and having a child had plumped my breasts, hips, and waist with natural curves, so that was something to be grateful for. The gangly teenager I used to be had transformed into a butterfly on the outside, and yet for most of my life I’d felt as though I was trapped in a cocoon.
I supported my breasts in my hands and looked at them in the mirror’s reflection. You’ve still got these, I reminded myself. My shoulders dropped. I didn’t want to kid myself. Sure you have, said a small voice at the back of my mind. But what’s the bloody point if no one wants to touch you! I knew time was running out and the fear of being an unsexed widow at my young age filled me with dread. I ran my finger across the Caesarean scar and thought of Maddy. It didn’t look half as ugly as it had just after she was born, but I hated having that minor blemish on an otherwise beautiful body. I placed my hands on my hips, a last defiant stand against the ageing process. Well, here I was, warts and all.
This is who you are, Stella, I told myself. It’s up to you what you do with it. You can hide away from the world or get your head together and find what you’re really looking for. You’re not an oil painting, but it’s nothing that a little restoration can’t fix. With a final glance at my curvy waist and breasts, I shrugged my shoulders. But what am I looking for, I wondered, as I looked toward the bedside lamp which bathed Tom’s image with a warm glow. I lifted the silk sheets and slid into bed.
‘I love you.’
With tender thumb strokes, I traced the contours of his face, but the lack of physical reciprocation made me cry. My right hand slid under the sheets and rested on my breasts. As I tweaked my nipple, it stiffened instantly. I missed the way he nibbled them with his soft lips and with gentle, circular motions licked around the hardened peaks. ‘I miss the way you kissed me here.’ My hand moved slowly over my fluttering stomach, downwards until the palm rested on my pubic bone. ‘And here. If only you could touch me again and rest your head down there … do the things you once did to make me feel like a woman.’
