Something shifts in me, I’ve let go of an innocence about love, loyalty and fidelity. I’m different now, living a more louche life. I’m not sure I like myself, but perhaps I’ll grow into it.
The card works in the lock, and I slip inside, shut the door quickly behind me and lean my back against it. The room’s okay. Very male. Dark wood, angular mid-century furniture, statement lamps. You can see that it’s tasteful – the cream angora throw, the tan leather design-classic chair.
I’m very sober and very grounded. There’s no glitter or dazzle in me to make this easy. Every domestic detail stands out: the hum of the mini-bar; the weight of Josh’s bag on the bed, wrinkling the snowy perfection of the duvet cover; the random shouts and yelps from people in the street below. And, oh, Christ, there’s a bottle of something fizzy in an ice-bucket. Thoughtful? Or sleazy?
I move quickly, changing the lighting, creating pools of shadow, and circles of golden glow. As I’m wondering what music to put on, there’s a quiet knock on the door. My heart almost jumps out of my mouth.
I twist the handle and Josh steps in and looks at me. ‘Is this okay?’ he asks. ‘I mean, the room?’
‘It’s nice. I’m just nervous.’
‘I’m nervous too.’
‘What if you think I’m too old, too –’
‘I won’t. I swear. Is there a Do Not Disturb thing?’ He locates it, quickly opens the door and slings the sign on the knob. Now there’s no danger of us being interrupted.
We’re standing facing each other, a little awkwardly. I’m waiting for some force to fling us together, to throw a bucket of passion over us and make this easier.
He steps towards me, places his hand on my waist. ‘Don’t look so scared.’ He takes my right hand in his free one and moves in tighter. Our faces are so close they’re almost touching and his breath is on my skin. ‘I’ve wanted you for so long,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe it’s actually happening.’
It’s time for him to kiss me, and when he doesn’t, I plant my hands on his shoulders and tentatively move my mouth to his. My lips feel swollen and tender as they touch off his. He moves to take my face in both his hands and kisses me back with care and sweetness. It’s unexpected – I’d thought he might be rougher, more macho – and it’s lovely.
It’s seventeen years since a man other than Hugh has kissed me – that craziness with Matthew Carlisle doesn’t count – and everything is different with Josh. He tastes different, he smells different, there’s no beard. Even his hand –
He breaks off the kiss – oh! – and half whispers, ‘Stop thinking about him.’
There’s a second of despair, I’m afraid I won’t be able to, then I whisper back, sounding braver than I feel, ‘Make me.’
There’s a flash of his teeth as he gives a quick smile, then slowly he slides one hand around to the nape of my neck, lifting my hair and sending shivers of energy down my back. With his other hand, he strokes my cheek with his thumb, then kisses me again and this time it’s deeper, more intimate.
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?’