We both glance back at the makeshift tent-cum-shelter than I’ve built. Bear Grylls would be proud of me. One end of one groundsheet is stretched across two rocks and secured to them with the bungy cords and the other end slopes down to the floor to create a roof over sheltering the small dip between the rocks, anchored with tent pegs through the reinforced metal holes. I’m rather proud of it.
Of course, we haven’t discussed sleeping arrangements. There’s one sleeping bag between us and another groundsheet, which I thought we could lay over the bracken mattress to keep the creepy-crawlies at bay.
Another raindrop lands on my face followed in quick succession by a few more.
‘It’s raining,’ says Tom.
‘It is.’
‘Time for bed.’
‘Yes.’
Neither of us want to address the fact that we’re going to have to share sleeping space as we crawl hurriedly into the shelter. There is literally just room for both of us side by side and, at the tallest bit, immediately in front of the rocks, space for our rucksacks.
‘You can have the sleeping bag,’ he says as we rustle our way across the groundsheet-covered bracken.
‘Don’t be silly. If we open it up, we can share it.’
The rain starts to patter on the roof, insistent drops that hammer on the plastic groundsheet.
The glow of the fire starts to die away and before long we’re in total darkness.
I wrestle with the sleeping bag and undo the zip and spread it out.
‘Have you got a hat?’ asks Tom.
‘Yes.’
‘I’d put it on. It’ll help keep you warm in the night. You lose most of your body heat from your head.’
‘Right.’ I pull the woolly pom-pom hat from the front pocket of my rucksack. It’s got silver sparkly thread running through it, which makes it a bit scratchy, but I put it on.
After a bit of shifting and fidgeting, both of us finally lie down. The plastic groundsheet is cold beneath my back but hopefully it will warm up soon. Tom is beside me. I can hear him breathing. I’m glad he’s there but only because he’s better than nothing. I’d hate to be here on my own.
The sleeping bag only just covers me, partly because I’m trying to keep as much distance from Tom as possible, making sure I’m not touching any part of him.
‘Lydia. I’m not going to bite and we have slept together before.’
‘Yes. So you said. “We had sex. End of,” I seem to recall.’
‘Are you miffed about that?’ He turns on his side to face me, bringing the warmth of his body closer. ‘It was a one-night stand. Neither of us made any promises.’ His voice rises dismissively.
I turn to face him, my head lying on the crook of my arm. I can’t see much in the dark gloom of the shelter, but I know his face is a matter of inches from mine. I remember waking at one point that weekend and watching him sleep for a little while, the dark pinpricks of bristles dusting his chin, the long lashes curving against his cheek, the serenity of sleep across his face.
The sleeping bag settles around us, cocooning us in, and I feel warmer already.
‘Not miffed at all. Like you said, it was a one-night stand. Although technically it was two.’
‘Whatever.’
I sigh and then realise I’m so close he could probably feel the hot breath on his face.
The rain continues to hammer down but it’s actually quite snug in here. Cosy almost. I close my eyes.
‘Night, Lydia.’ His words surprise me.
‘Night, Tom.’
My aching body settles into the bracken base. I wouldn’t say it’s that comfortable but it’s better than the hard ground and I’m quite good at sleeping anywhere. I’ve had years of practice.
But falling asleep isn’t that easy. I’m conscious of Tom and I keep getting flashbacks of that first night. I wonder if he does too. Doubtful. He refuses to talk about it, so I’m guessing he’s completely deleted that weekend from his memory banks, like a computer.
I close my eyes and try not to wriggle. My usual bedtime routine is to burrow in my covers and savour the contentment of being in my own bed under a feather duvet and crisp cotton sheets. I treat myself to nice things because I can. I feel slightly homesick for my little flat and imagine the double bed, the streetlight streaming through the window. I sigh again, wishing I was there. My bolthole.
‘Go to sleep, Lydia,’ grumbles Tom. ‘I can hear you thinking. Your virtue is safe with me.’
‘I never thought otherwise.’ I can’t resist the quip. ‘If nothing else, you were quite the gentleman.’ Although he was filthy, talking dirty and telling me what he wanted to do to me, he did constantly check that I was okay with everything, and I mean every damn thing.
I remember him murmuring against my thigh, ‘Is this all right? Do you want me to carry on?’ before he sucked my clit so thoroughly I thought I might pass out. Then, as he was circling my nipple with his tongue, urging me in between licks and nips to ‘Tell me what you want.’ And before that first thrust inside me, with his dick rock-hard at my entrance, nudging and teasing, asking between heavy breaths, ‘Do you want me to fuck you?’
In my head I can hear my incoherent cries urging him on, begging him for more. Those quiet questions, him in command, were as much a turn-on as his mouth and fingers, which played my body like a conductor in charge of an orchestra playing an entire symphony.
And why am I torturing myself like this?
‘Gentleman? I fucked you seven ways to heaven,’ he says a couple of seconds later with a disbelieving snort.
‘Did I complain?’
