Chapter 19

There's a comedy moment where we both untangle ourselves from our half-removed clothes, leaving them where they fall, and then we're kissing desperately, backing out of the room towards the stairs. We bump against the bottom step and I take her hand and lead her up to the bedroom.

The scent of her consumes me as I kiss her neck, pushing aside her hair. Soft gasps punctuate the air as she breathes my name and I'm trying to hang on to sanity. It feels as if my blood is boiling and my cock is so close to bursting. The feel of her hot mouth on me has driven me to the edge and I've never wanted anyone quite the way I want her now.

The rucksack is still propped against what I'm already thinking of as her side of the bed and, thankfully without any fuss, she retrieves a couple of condoms and hands me one.

There's not much finesse as I rip into the packet as Lydia pushes down my boxers. My cock springs free and her hands are straight on me, her tight grip almost bringing me to my knees.

‘Lydia,' I moan. It's too much. Too much.

She gives me a wicked grin, loosens her grip, taking the condom out of my hand. My legs shake as she takes her time, teasing and touching, slowly, slowly rolling it down my length.

‘Jesus,' I manage through gritted teeth. ‘Lydia, I think you're trying to kill me.' I palm her breast, focusing on the taut, tight nipple. She lets out a low groan and I pull her against me, relishing the feel of skin on skin. Her hips are jerking against mine.

I think I'm killing myself. I'm so desperate to feel her round me, the urge to race to orgasm has me in thrall.

I pull her down onto the bed and we lie side by side for a moment, our eyes locked on each other. Then, seeking her permission, I move slowly over her. She gives a tiny nod, which for some reason makes my heart leap in my chest. She's so fucking giving and open. We're both so revved but I need to check she's ready. With Lydia I don't take anything for granted. For all her efficiency and down-to-earth matter-of-factness, there's a vulnerability about her. Her eyes are wide and bright, watching me.

I slide a hand up her thigh and find she's so wet. But before I can touch her clit, she moves.

‘I want you, now.'

My heart jumps again and I move over her, taking my weight on my elbows. Beneath me she spreads her legs, I lower my hips and in one fluid, hard, fast movement I slide home. The sensation of sliding into the slick, hot cocoon of her body is as much relief as pleasure.

I hear her small, shrill, desperate cry. ‘Tom.' I can feel my orgasm gathering force as each thrust turns the screw higher and higher. I'm beyond anything, the pleasure is rising and rising and I need to tell her. The words spill from me, an incoherent and desperate chant, ‘Lydia. Lydia. So good. So fucking good.'

I'm focused on the sweet rush of pleasure with every move compounded by Lydia's inarticulate pleas, begging for more. I grasp her hips, lost to everything but sensation, and I bury myself to the hilt. I stop to savour the moment but then momentum takes over once more and my orgasm bursts, waves of pleasure shuddering through me and I feel her spasm, gripping my cock as it pulses inside her. This woman will be the death of me.

I collapse on top of her in complete surrender as her arms clutch me to her, holding on as if for dear life. The physical connection burns bright and fierce between us and euphoria fills me. Another thought barges in: I could hold on to Lydia for ever. I push it away. It's just heat of the moment. Desire and lust. I don't do for ever, it's too much of a burden. There are too many conditions attached, too much expectation, and I have enough of that in my life already.

We lie there for a while, catching our breath, and despite the tiny reservations creeping in, I'm so spent and sated that I feel as if my body could ooze through the cracks between the floorboards. Lydia's warm and soft beneath me, her hand stroking my back as if she's trying to anchor herself back to reality. I know the feeling. Conscious that I'm so much heavier than her and she has all those bruises, I move to one side and pull the duvet up over us. Just for now, I can't bear to let her go – I'll give into it and live in the present – and I pull her into my side, hooking an arm over her waist and sliding one leg between hers. I feel uncharacteristically soft. There's a tenderness inside me, a gratitude that she's given me so much. I nuzzle her neck, as much to avoid meeting her gaze as needing to stay as close as I can. There's a strange comfort in the bone-deep feeling of ease and for some reason, I realise I feel safe. Of all the emotions, gratitude and feeling secure are the two that rise to the top. I'm still puzzling over this as sleep starts to pull me into its embrace.

It's dark when I wake up, a half-moon shining through the big window, slicing the room with shadows. I'm snug and toasty, Tom's body, lovely and warm, is cuddled up next to mine, and I lie there enjoying the feeling of being with someone else for a change, of being part of a pair. I know it's not real and it's only temporary, but it feels good and why not relish it while I can? Things like this never last and I'm not going to kid myself they do but for once I give myself a break and enjoy the quiet companionship of another body next to mine.

I close my eyes and catalogue the signs of Tom's presence, his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, his heartbeat thumping inexorably, strong and steady, and the feel of his warm skin and soft hair against my neck. Normal life is a world away and I savour this out-of-reality moment, doing as I've tried to do a dozen times before with my mindfulness app, by being present.

He stirs, his hand stroking my hip with idle movements as he lifts his head.

‘Hi,' he says with a smile that I can just see in the dimly lit room.

‘Hi,' I respond. His fingers trace small circles just above my hipbone now.

He kisses me on the edge of my mouth. ‘Did you enjoy the film?'

‘What film?' I ask.

He rolls me over to face him, his hand skimming down my back before resting just above my bottom.

‘We might have to watch it again then,' he says, and I know he's not talking about the film at all.

Just then my stomach gives an inelegant growl and he rolls over and kisses me just above my belly button, his stubble rasping across my skin, and I squirm, the contrast between his soft lips and the harsh graze of his chin sending pleasure and pain through me. His mouth travels down and I lie back as his hands grip my hips, holding me firm.

‘I remember this,' he says and looks up at me as one hand dips between my legs. His fingers rub over my clit; it's slick and wet and all my nerve endings fire up again with needy enthusiasm. He spreads my legs wider. I can feel my inner thigh muscles complaining as they stretch to their full capacity, as I'm bared open.

He moves down and kisses my inner thighs, working up one and then down the other, still keeping my legs stretched wide. Each time the kisses get higher but he never quite gets there. I can feel the cold air and the steady tug of lust. His hands grip my hips harder as they involuntarily buck.

He grins up at me. ‘Tell me what you want.'

I swallow. We've played this game before. I know he'll only be satisfied when I'm filthy, when I'm open and honest with him, telling him what I really want, but in the meantime, there's pleasure in the game.

‘What do you want, Lydia?'

His use of my name this time makes me a little shy, but there's a need driving me. I'm desperate to feel his mouth on me.

He nudges my hips. ‘Tell me.'

‘I want you to … touch me there.'

‘Lydia,' he chastises me and stares up at me. ‘I need specifics.'

‘I want your tongue,' I say in a quick pant.

He tuts. ‘You can do better than that.' He blows warm air on my exposed clit and my hips twitch. I sigh and swallow. It's harder this time. More intimate. Last time it was just sex. This time … for me it's a whole lot more.

‘Lydia.' His voice is stern.

‘I want you to lick me inside and suck me,' I say in a quick rush, scarcely able to believe I've said the words. It was so much easier when we were two strangers. This is so much more intimate and … scary. Because it matters. I want him so much and I'm terrified of that hot, bright need but at the same time longing to feel his mouth on me.

‘I need the words, Lydie,' he says, leaning down to blow again. The heat contrasts with the cold air and I feel myself getting wet and desperate. I can't move and it's pure torture.

He blows again.

‘Fuck, Tom,' I shout out, pushed beyond my limit. ‘I want you to lick my pussy and suck my clit.'

And immediately his mouth is on me and it's every bit as wonderful as I remember and exactly what I've fantasised about ever since.

My moans fill the quiet air as his tongue circles and strokes. His hold on my hips eases and I feel the hot flood as I come, gasping and shuddering. He scoots up to hold me as I sob into his shoulder as sensation drenches me.

I'm still treasuring the hot flares of pleasure firing through my lower body while Tom strokes my shoulder. ‘Satisfied now?' I ask him, trying to re-establish control.

‘Yes.' And then he adds, whispering in my ear, ‘Are you?'

‘Yes, you sod.'

‘You love it really. And I love it when you finally give in, when that prim little mouth of yours talks dirty.'

He's right and it's strangely liberating. With Tom, scary as it is, I really can let go and let out a side of me that I never even knew existed before.

He flicks on the bedside light and grins at me. ‘You've come over to the dark side.'

I nudge him with my arm and laugh.

‘Now you've worn me out,' he says. ‘I need food. I fancy a Nutella sandwich with tomato and herb pasta.'

‘That's good,' I say. ‘Because that's all we have.'

* * *

We dine in the kitchen and the food tastes almost quite good. Mind you, there is nothing better than Nutella. It is one of my indulgences. I once tasted it at a friend's house as a child and I vowed that when I was a grown-up, I would always have some in my cupboard. Something that I have stuck to religiously. It's still one of my favourite things.

Tom squints at the calendar opposite. The picture of the big blue lorry on the front of it is not exactly in keeping with the tasteful design of the cottage and the rest of the pictures on the walls.

‘Oh God, I'm going to get so much grief for not sending my mother a card or phoning her for her birthday.'

‘Surely when you explain, she'll understand,' I say as one who knows how inconsequential birthdays are in the grand scheme of things. I'd stopped placing any reliance on them by the time I was twelve.

‘Not sure my father will.' Tom seems genuinely gloomy and glares down at his dinner as if that might offer some magical solution.

‘I'll be thirty tomorrow,' I say, more to change the subject than anything else.

‘What?' He starts as he looks up at me, incredulity etched on his face.

I shrug.

‘Why didn't you say anything?'

‘Who to?'

His face is a picture of bewilderment, which I don't quite get.

‘But … surely you had plans. I mean, thirty's a biggie.'

‘I'm not big on birthdays. My friends Eleanor and Olivia organise something every year but I've always suspected that it's more for them than for me.' I smile at the thought of the two of them and then feel a bit guilty. I should have told them I'd be away. We hadn't actually booked anything but we'd said we'd get together like always.

‘Why don't you do birthdays? My friends say I'm a miserable bastard but I still celebrate.'

‘It wasn't really a thing in my family.'

‘What do you mean? No presents? No parties?'

I give a mirthless laugh. My parents rarely acknowledged my birthday and on the very rare occasion they did, I wished they hadn't. ‘There wasn't really the money for presents. Although there were parties,' I say with an irony that is probably lost on him. For some reason I continue opening up a little more of myself to him. ‘My parents' parties were infamous.'

Tom frowns. ‘Not good?'

‘No. They invariably got out of hand.' Tom doesn't need to know that on my seventh birthday, I slept in the garden shed because two strange men had passed out in my bed with another three on the floor. But I do volunteer with a jokey smile, ‘On my ninth birthday, the police were called by the neighbours because the party was still going at five in the morning.'

‘Right.' Tom nods as if that makes sense but I can tell he doesn't really understand – why should he? – and I don't really want to tell him. It's not that I'm ashamed, none of it was my fault, but I just don't want him to think differently of me. I've never felt sorry for myself and I don't want anyone else to. My past has shaped me and I think I've come out things pretty well. I'm a well-educated woman with a well-respected and high-paying job and good in the sack – although, of course, the latter stat is just between Tom and me.