by Marian Keyes
He’s really, really good at this.
‘You have no idea,’ he says, ‘how much I want you.’
My hands move to the sides of his body, where they hold on, as if he’s a steering wheel. Gingerly, I force myself to move them around to his back. Again, all I can think of are the differences from Hugh – Josh is tougher, more muscled, and I have a flash of disloyalty.
The hand he’s had on my neck slides all the way down to where my waist curves and becomes my bum, and he starts a sweeping cupping motion along the slippery satin, going lower and lower. ‘You feel even more beautiful than I expected,’ he breathes.
One of my hands slips into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling him against me and there he is, already swollen and erect. Instinctively, he lowers himself so I press him hard into my pubic bone and, yes, this is happening, my body wants this. It’s a strange, sorrowful relief.
The hand that was on my face moves on to my stomach, then immediately starts inching upwards to my chest. His fingers advance, touch off the soft underside, then retreat again and both my nipples jump to attention. They’re aching to be touched. It needs to happen so I take his hand and place it directly on my breast, which sends a charge of sensation straight to my hidey-hole.
‘Slow down,’ he whispers.
‘No.’ I can’t endure hours of foreplay, not this, the first time. I want it to have happened, to already be in the future where I’ve been with a man who isn’t Hugh.
‘Our first time,’ he says. ‘Let’s not rush it.’
‘Seriously.’ I look him in the eye – and it’s a shock that he isn’t Hugh. ‘We’ll have other times when it’s slow but right now I just need it to happen.’
He looks pissed off, or maybe he’s hurt, I don’t know. But he slides his hands under my bum and, to my surprise, lifts me off the floor. Instinctively my legs wrap themselves around his hips as he carries me the few steps to the bed.
He lays me across the duvet, sweeps his bag to the floor and starts again with the swoony kisses while he unbuttons my top with impressive speed. I inch up his sweatshirt, so we’re skin-to-skin. ‘Oh, the touch of you,’ he whispers.
With fumbling fingers I unbuckle his belt, unbutton his waistband, then he stops kissing me in order to watch as I slide down the zip. I part the denim and see the angry-looking tip straining from the top of his pants. I lay the palm of my hand against it and it twitches. Then I squeeze and he says, ‘No.’
Oh?
‘Unless you want this to be over right now.’
My top is open all the way down, his hands have moved to the clasp of my bra and there’s a rush of release as he opens it. Efficiently he sits me up, removes my top and bra and pulls his sweatshirt over his head. ‘I fantasized about this,’ he says quietly. ‘But the reality is so much better.’
Before he guides me back down to the bed, I get a quick look at his body, pale-skinned and dark-haired. He’s not ripped, which is a relief because neither am I, but his chest is broad and his stomach is fairly flat.
We kiss again while the fingers of one of his hands tap my breast with little fluttery motions, sometimes brushing against my nipple, and when it does, I feel dangerously close.
His other hand explores under my skirt and when the tips of his fingers brush the line where my stocking ends and my thigh starts, he groans. ‘Oh, Jesus.’ With both hands, he pushes up my skirt, takes a look and groans again.
‘How does this work?’ He’s unfastening and unzipping my skirt and pulling it off, and I use the time to slide my hands under his clothes and on to his bum, then peel the fabric all the way down until his dick bursts out, thrillingly purple, mesmerizing.
While his jeans and underpants are bunched mid-thigh, he slides down my knickers, and when he accidentally glances his thumb against my most sensitive part, a whimper comes from me.
‘Oh?’ There’s a little smile from him. ‘You like that?’ He shifts himself to stare into my eyes, then with one hand he pinches my nipple and at the same time, he presses the other firmly against me, and it’s too much, I pulse into his palm, my eyes startled with shock and pleasure, involuntary gasps coming from my chest. He laughs softly, almost mockingly.
‘Put on a condom,’ I whisper. Because if he enters me now, I can come again.
‘You do it.’
My hands are shaking as I unfurl it and slide it along his length, while he watches, his expression agonized, his eyes almost all pupil. ‘I need you on top of me.’ I say. ‘To start with.’
Propped on one elbow, he settles himself between my legs, and slides his way into me with astonishing ease, and I think, I’ve done it now, I’ve cheated on Hugh. Maybe it’s only a technicality but there’s no way back from this.
Josh moves in slow, deliberate circles, his pubic bone tight against mine, massaging the throbbing centre of me. ‘Amy, is this what you want? Amy? Is this how you want it?’
God, he’s a talker. I’ve never been with a talker before. Hugh and I, we just got on with it, we seemed to understand each other without the verbals.
But Josh is going too slow for me and digging my nails into his buttocks and speeding up my own hips isn’t making any difference. ‘Could you do it faster?’ I’m embarrassed.
‘Like this?’
‘Um, yes, but …’
‘Yes?’
‘Harder.’
‘You want me to fuck you harder?’
I whisper, ‘Yes.’
‘Tell me.’
Oh, Christ. ‘Fuck me harder.’
‘Josh.’
‘Fuck me harder, Josh.’
‘Like this?’
‘Faster. Fuck me faster, Josh.’
‘I’m going to fuck you faster, Amy. I’m going to fuck you harder.’
It’s slightly silly. And, yet, sexy. Once more the thrills of pleasure build in me and Josh growls into my ear, ‘I’m going to fuck you so hard, Amy, you’re going to come.’
And then I do.
My centre explodes, my hips buck, my back arches, short gasps issue helplessly from my throat and I realize I’ve almost punctured his buttocks with the heels of my shoes.
While I’m limp with aftermath, he slides his way out of me, stands, takes off all his clothes, then rearranges himself to sit with his back against the headboard and pulls me to him. I lower myself on to him, place his hands on my hips and move up and down. We stare into each other’s faces but I begin to feel strange, like I’m dreaming.
I close my eyes and hear his breath coming shorter and shorter, then he says, his voice hoarse, ‘I’m sorry, Amy, I’m going to come. I’m going to – I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming.’
I open my eyes and watch his face as it contorts in ecstasy. It’s so strange, this force that makes people betray the people they love.
We slide down the bed and lie together, my head on his chest, his heartbeat in my ear. One of his arms is around me, his fingers tangled in my hair. The other is stretched tightly across my body, the hand on my hipbone.
As everything settles in me, one emotion above all others rises to the surface and that emotion is grief.
Sleeping with Josh – with anyone other than Hugh – is a milestone, and even though I’ve gained a new life experience, so much has been lost.
I cry without moving or making a sound. A tear lands on his bare skin and, although he doesn’t speak, the way he tightens his hold lets me know that he understands.
I wake up to find myself in bed. With Josh Rowan. We must have fallen asleep.
‘What time is it?’ I ask, anxiously.
‘Just after one.’
‘You can’t stay the night. Neither of us can.’
His eyes cloud.
‘Have a shower,’ I say, ‘and go home.’
‘You can stay the night.’
‘No.’ I’m going to Druzie’s.
‘Amy, is this hotel a problem?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘But?’
‘Maybe I
’d prefer somewhere less fashionable.’
‘Yeah?’
I can’t decide if he’s being sarcastic or not. ‘There’s a small hotel near Marylebone we could book the next time?’
‘Next time?’
‘Next Tuesday.’ In a rush, I add, ‘If you want.’
‘I want.’
A thrill fizzes my blood.
‘I’ll book a room,’ he says.
I hesitate. I should pay for the hotel next week. We’re equal partners in whatever this is.
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘Leave that to me.’
71
Wednesday, 16 November, day sixty-five
The texts flood in on Wednesday: Thank you for last night.
And
I can’t stop thinking about you.
And
You’re amazing.
And
Next Tuesday is too far away.
When I arrive at the office on Thursday morning, Thamy greets me by saying, ‘Someone’s either really sorry or really grateful to you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Flowers. But not regular flowers. They came yesterday. On your desk.’
I hurry inside and – ‘Oh, my God!’ You can smell them before you see them and it’s not just the size of the bundle, it’s the nature of it – my desk looks like a meadow of wild flowers. Somehow, he’d got spring flowers: there are startlingly red poppies, their petals as thin as paper; graceful, lanky foxgloves in white and purple; yellow marsh-marigolds and stalks of bright blue speedwell.
The card says, ‘You’re a Goddess. Josh xxx.’
‘Who’re they from?’ Tim asks.
My face flames and I don’t know what to say. ‘A man.’
‘Hugh?’
I shake my head because I’m too uncomfortable to speak.
And here comes Alastair. ‘Wow, Amy. Some flowers. All credit to Josh Rowan, those flowers are very you.’
‘Josh Rowan sent them?’ Tim asks. ‘Why? Oh! Well!’ He coughs and hurries away.
‘I’d never heard of that florist,’ Alastair says. ‘Handy to know about them. So how’d it go?’
‘Strange. Good. Sad. Lovely.’
‘Excellent. Well, I’ve news of my own. I’m in love.’
‘Are you now? Fast work.’
‘I met her on Tuesday night at a salsa yoga workshop.’
‘Of course.’
‘She was the facilitator. Her name is Helmi and, Amy, the connection. It was instant and amazing. We stayed up most of the night talking and last night I went to a psychic –’
‘Oh, Alastair, you’re such a gobshite.’
‘Seriously, Amy, I need to know if she’s for me because I don’t have any more time to waste. And the good news is that Helmi and I are soul-mates!’ He flashes his dazzlers at me. ‘We’ve met in countless past lives, the psychic said. Sometimes I was the mother and she was my son. It wasn’t always like this manifestation.’
‘Oh, Alastair.’ I could weep for him and the utter shite he elects to believe in.
‘Helmi and I are soul-mates,’ he insists.
‘There’s no such thing,’ I say. ‘There are six billion people on the planet but how handy that most people meet their “soul-mate” within a few square miles of where they live and work.’
‘No –’
‘Cop on, Alastair! Seriously! This is how love works: you meet someone, you fancy them and that propels you to get to know them. Everyone has a checklist in their soul about what they want from their special someone, and this person won’t tick all of the boxes, but they’ll tick enough for you to decide, okay, I’m prepared to work to make this happen. But you have to learn to overlook the things about the other person that annoy and disappoint you, and you have to try to change the things about yourself that they can’t stand.’
‘No –’
‘You learn to compromise. For example, you go, yet again, on a beach holiday to the Algarve instead of the road trip in Serbia to find your favourite artist.’
Alastair looks baffled but I’m not done.
‘A soul-mate is like one of those seventy-nine-euro flights to New York – a lovely idea but they don’t exist.’
‘Wow, Amy.’ Alastair shakes his head. ‘That’s dark. Harsh.’
‘You need to be realistic, is all I’m saying.’
‘You’ve been burnt first by Richie and then Hugh leaving you. But maybe you’ve met a new soul-mate.’ He nods at the flowers.
‘I haven’t.’
‘What do you think, Tim?’ Alastair asks. ‘Are you and, ah, Mrs Staunton soul-mates?’
‘You’d have to ask her.’
‘Do you feel she’s the only one for you?’
‘Like I say, you’d have to ask her.’
Thank God Tim has reverted to buttoned-up type. That other version of him scared the daylights out of me.
But, thanks to the lecture I’ve given to Alastair, my mood has sunk low.
‘What’s up?’ he asks.
‘I’m going to be twice-divorced. It’s a bad track record. And it’s no good trying to pass myself off as an innocent bystander. I’ve to own my part in it.’
‘You were an innocent bystander with Richie “Think of the poor blind children” Aldin.’
‘Maybe. We were too young, we shouldn’t have got married. I didn’t want to do it – I should have listened to my instincts.’
‘And Hugh?’
‘I’m culpable there, all right. But I don’t want to think about it now.’
Something totally weird has happened. Raffie Geras is back in Edinburgh. Back at work, living her previous life. And without Hugh.
I’d just assumed she was a long-term traveller. Not for a moment did I consider she was just on a two-week sun holiday.
There’s a photo of boots she bought in Dune in George’s Street. (This sounds biased, I know, but they’re not nice: the heel is a disappointment.) Another photo of her out on the piss with ‘her girls’ on Friday night, then one of her in bed – alone – on Sunday morning, drinking Berocca.
It’s hard to know what to make of this. Except now I can’t keep tabs on Hugh. I guess I’ll have to wait until he pops up, tagged by some other woman. Unless he’s planning to move to Edinburgh to be with Raffie.
It’s possible – he’d be able to get work there. And maybe I should be happy because he’d be nearish, for Sofie and Kiara, but all I feel is sick.
72
Tuesday, 22 November, day seventy-one
Room 18, he’d said in the text. I’ve used this hotel a couple of times to house clients, but I’ve never been up here on the third floor, which is a warren. The corridor doglegs around a corner, leads through a fire door, up a half-flight of stairs and – oh! Right, here’s room 18.
A quick moment to rearrange my hair, but before I’ve even knocked, the door is wrenched open and Josh pulls me inside. The door slams behind us and he’s pushed me up against it. I can’t believe I’d once thought his grey eyes were unremarkable when the promise they contain is probably the sexiest thing about him.
He takes my face in his hands and breathes, ‘This has been the longest seven days of my life,’ then kisses me with everything he’s got.
My body is already alive, every nerve-ending hair-trigger sensitive. He’s unbuttoning my dress, I’m fumbling to open his jeans, he takes one of my nipples into his mouth, I slide out his erection, he pulls down my knickers, I unpeel his jeans.
It’s different this time, rougher, faster, everything happening very quickly, and it suits me.
In probably less than three minutes, both of us are half undressed, he produces a condom. ‘I’ll do it,’ he says, and slides it along the hard length of himself. He lifts my legs, I wrap them around his waist, then he thrusts his way deep into me, pushing my back against the door.
It’s so intensely sexy that I exclaim with pleasure.
‘You like that?’
‘I love it,’ I gasp. ‘Do it again. Do it faster.’
‘Say –’
‘Fuck me faster, Josh!’
His hands are on my bum, my hands are clawing his hair, his mouth is on my breasts, and my heels are pushing against his buttocks as he pistons into me.
‘Amy.’ He’s panting into my ear. ‘I’m going to come.’
I haven’t yet and he knows. ‘Please come, Amy,’ he pleads. ‘Please come.’
But it’s too late: with a short, sharp howl, his body freezes and he pulses and twitches inside me. Eventually he whispers into my neck, ‘Sorry.’
‘But we’ve got all night.’
Tenderly, he carries – carries – me to the bed, and after a quick trip to the bathroom to dispose of the condom, he undresses himself, then me. Then, with his mouth, he delicately works me into a frenzy and keeps me poised on the edge for endless exquisite time, before eventually delivering me.
My head floats away and again and again I hear myself saying, ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’
When I open my eyes and return to the world, he’s once more stiff and erect. ‘Look at what you’re doing to me,’ he says. ‘This week, Amy, I’ve been horny as fuck. I haven’t wanked so much since I was a teenager.’
I cough with shock.
‘What d’I say? What? Talking about wanking?’
‘Mmm.’
He laughs. ‘I can show you.’
‘No!’
‘No? So what should I do instead?’
‘You know.’
‘Say it.’
A long time later, he says, ‘I’ve downloaded The Grand Budapest Hotel for you.’
I light up with pleasure at his thoughtfulness. He’d also ordered a cheese plate from room service for me.
‘But what’s with the sackcloth and ashes?’ he asks. ‘Wanting to come here, instead of the posh hotel.’
‘This is fine,’ I say. ‘It’s got everything we need, and we’re less likely to run into anyone who might know you.’
‘It’s not just that, though?’
‘I don’t want money wasted that could be spent on your family.’
‘And?’
‘Mmm.’ I try to find the words. ‘It’s not right to dress this up, to disguise it as something it’s not.’
